


Drain the Whole Sea

by magicbubblepipe



Series: Take Me to Church [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Use, Hand Job, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Wincest - Freeform, minor Sam/Brady, referenced weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries to be normal. Dean tries not to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drain the Whole Sea

            Sam drops his duffle and his backpack on the floor of his dorm room. He’d lucked out and scored a three bedroom suite with two other guys. He’s not sure he could have adjusted to sleeping in the same room with someone he doesn’t know, let alone trust implicitly. There’s nothing in here but a narrow bed with a bare mattress and storage space underneath and a desk on the opposite side. There’s a big airy window, letting in light to the barren space. Absent are the kitschy schemes of motel rooms, no cheap peeling wallpaper or advertisements for porn channels. This place feels almost clinical in comparison, reminding Sam vaguely of a hospital.

            Sam lets out his breath on a shaking sigh and kneels down to start unpacking. His few possessions fit easily into the storage space with plenty of room to spare. He sets his laptop and charger on the desk along with the couple of tattered books he’s managed to lug around. With a glance back at the bare bed, he makes a mental note to actually buy some sheets and blankets. He doesn’t even have a damn pillow of his own, come to think of it.  

            He’s jolted out of his thoughts by a knock on his open door. His head whips around, hand itching for the gun he left behind. There’s a guy standing there, looking a little surprised by Sam’s skittish behavior.

            “Hey man, sorry to startle you,” he says with a big easy grin. He’s got perfect teeth and he looks like he stepped out a fifties catalog.

            Sam blinks and extends his hand. “That’s alright. I’m Sam.”

            “Hey, I’m Brady.” Brady takes his hand in a firm grip that even John Winchester would respect. “So, you just got in, huh?” he asks, nodding at Sam’s mostly empty room.

            “Yeah. I think I came a little unprepared,” Sam replies, tilting his head back toward the bed.

            Brady chuckles, “I can point you toward a department store or something if you’re new to the area. Where’re you from, anyway?”

            Sam panics but tries hard to conceal it. Where the hell is he from? “Uh. Kansas.” It’s the first thing that pops into his head and it’s not exactly a lie.

            Brady nods, “Get a lot of tornadoes out there?”

            Sam’s face twitches into what he hopes is a smile and he laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

            “Sorry, that was a smartass question. I’m from Massachusetts.”

            “Geeze, you’re far from home,” Sam comments, wondering why he’d come all the way to Stanford when there are plenty of great schools on the east coast.

            Brady huffs out a laugh and leans back against the wall. “Yeah, not far enough. My folks are stupid rich and they can be a bit much sometimes, especially when they brag on my Harvard student sister.”

            This boy grew up so completely opposite from him but they both wound up in the same place at the same time. That kind of blows Sam’s mind and he immediately wants to know more. He wants to ask about what it’s like to be rich and what his mom is like and if she’s proud of him. Sam doesn’t ask any of that though and is instead trying to formulate a lie about his own family. Instead he says:

            “Yeah, my family can be pretty rough too.”

            Brady eyes him with a curious politeness but doesn’t pry. “Hey, me and a friend are gonna meet up at the café down the street later. You want to come?”

            “Um, sure,” Sam says. He’s tired and he has a crick in his neck from falling asleep on the bus but he’s in no position to pass up on potential friendships. 

            “Cool,” Brady says with another big smile and he turns to leave, “See you later, Sammy.”

            _Sammy_.

            Sam’s breath catches in his throat as that word echoes in his head, Dean’s whispered words pleading into the slope of his neck, tears on his shirt. Sam’s eyes are wide, black creeping in around the edges of his sight and hissing static in his ears. “Don’t call me that,” he hears himself say, “Don’t ever call me that.”

            Firm hands grip his biceps and guide him to sit down on the bed. “Hey, man calm down.” Words swim sluggishly into Sam’s head and he blinks, takes a breath. The hands on him shake him a little and he snaps back into himself, staring into Brady’s wide, frightened eyes.

            “Are you okay?” he asks, panic clear in his voice.

            Sam nods, his sweat cooling on his forehead and upper lip, making him feel sick. “I’m fine.”

            “I won’t ever call you that again. I swear.”

            Sam nods slowly. His tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth.

            “Man, you’re white as a sheet,” Brady says and then he suddenly stands, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

            A few minutes later and Brady returns with a small round tin in his hand that looks like it could hold cookies. Sam’s eyebrows rise and he wonders what the hell cookies have to do with anything. Brady sees his confused expression and smirks, popping the lid as he sits down on the bare mattress next to Sam. What he has is definitely not cookies.

            Brady pulls a plastic baggie from the tin and tosses it to Sam. Sam turns it over in his hands, inspecting the little buds of marijuana inside: a substantial amount, really. Next to follow is a small glass pipe and a Bic lighter.

            “I thought we were going out for coffee?” Sam says, a little bewildered by this sudden turn but liking the idea more and more.

            Brady shrugs, “You look like you could use this more than caffeine.” He takes the bag from Sam and pinches out a small amount to nestle in the bowl of the pipe. “Be my guest,” he says and passes it to Sam along with the lighter.

            Sam’s only done this once before but he doesn’t want to think about that. Resolutely, he strikes the lighter and puts the pipe to his mouth. He inhales deep, hot smoke rushing to the back of his throat and he holds it until his lungs start to burn. He lets it out slow, only coughing a little. It tastes better than the stuff he had before and doesn’t smell as rank. Brady does look like the kind of guy who can afford the good shit.

            Brady pats his back encouragingly and takes the pipe when Sam offers it back. They trade it back and forth for a good while, the room getting hazy and warm with smoke. Eventually they lie back on the bed side by side, staring at the ceiling and not saying much. Sam’s blood is buzzing pleasantly and his head feels tight but a good tight. The worn-soft material of his jeans feels good against his fingertips as he idly rubs his thighs.

            Brady is saying something that Sam is trying to listen to but his thoughts keep drifting back to what he isn’t supposed to think of: Dean sitting with him on a motel bed, shotgunning acrid smoke back and forth into each other’s mouths. Sam bites his lip at the remembered taste of Dean, sweet behind the sour of the weed, the way they slowly tangled their tongues together.

            The high blots out the pain enough for Sam to just remember the sensation of his brother’s hand in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. The feel of bare, hot skin sliding together when clothes became too constricting, Dean’s breath on his ear. He doesn’t realize he’s palming his hard cock until a hand closes around his wrist, gently tugging it out of the way. An unfamiliar hand takes its place, rubbing gently, squeezing a little.

            Sam chokes out a little noise and spreads his legs. His head swims with images of Dean grinding down on top of him as the hand on his crotch unzips his pants and tugs him free. The first touch of skin on skin makes him gasp, his eyes rolling back and fluttering closed. The stroking feels so good that it takes him a moment to notice what’s missing. This hand is too smooth, too soft. There are no gun calluses, no scars. No Dean.

            He weakly twists his hips and mutters out a soft “no”. Brady shushes him and strengthens his grip on Sam’s cock. Sam pushes at the offending hand but his muscles feel useless and the pleasure is making him tremble despite himself.

            “C’mon, lemme help you out,” Brady quietly insists, passing his thumb over the head in a way that makes Sam grit his teeth.

            He doesn’t want to but suddenly, Sam starts to cry, hot tears welling up and rushing down his temples, wetting his hair. Brady doesn’t seem to realize until Sam lets out a broken little sob. He yanks his hand away from Sam like he’s been burned and quickly backs away.

            “I’m sorry. Please don’t do that,” Brady pleads, helpless against the steady flow of tears and whimpers escaping this near stranger.

            No amount of consoling can make Sam stop and Brady is left with no choice but to return to his own room and let him be. He leaves the remainder of his pot with Sam by way of apology. Sam’s still annoyingly hard, his mind and heart full of his brother. Desperately, he takes himself in hand, pumping hard and fast, almost punishing. He comes to the thought of Dean’s lips against the sharp curve of is jaw.

            Sam’s crying has stopped but he’s somehow emptier for it. He scowls in disgust at the mess on his hand and wipes it off on his jeans before kicking them off and onto the floor. He curls up on his side the wrong way across the bed and falls asleep there, feeling cold and utterly alone.

…

            Dean and John remain in that godawful rundown two-story for as long as they can stand. Neither have been sober for more than an hour at a time since Sam left. Hardly a word passes between them that isn’t sobbed or cursed. At the end of a week, John suddenly decides he’s had enough. He rises early, waking Dean with his knocking about in the living room. Dean’s taken to sleeping on the threadbare couch, can’t bear to sleep in the room he shared with Sam.

            “Wha’s up?” he asks blearily, the dim light telling him the sun has barely started to rise. John looks back at his eldest son with something like a grimace and turns back to throwing his crap in a bag.

            “Gotta hunt.”

            Dean rubs his eyes and yawns, pulling himself to a sitting position. “Where at?”

            “Oregon.”

            “Cool. Lemme just get my stuff together and we can hit the road.” Dean’s head is aching like a bitch but he’s looking forward to getting out of there as soon as possible.

            John stills and Dean can feel something coming. “Dad?”

            “It’s just me this time.” John says quietly, lifting his journal from the coffee table and stuffing it in his duffel.

            “What do you mean?” Dean’s heart is beating hard, mouth dry and tasting sour with fear and last night’s whiskey.

            “I mean,” he says, leveling a look at Dean that tries not to be guilty and fails, “You’re old enough to strike out on your own now. Got you a hunt lined up in Georgia.”

            Dean feels sick. First Sam leaves him and now Dad? He rises to his feet and follows his father when he makes for the door. “Dad, wait.”

            “Don’t argue with me on this, son.” John nearly begs, a haunted look of desperation in his eyes, “Please.”

            Dean lets go of his dad’s jacket and steps back, eyes lowered and resigned. “Yes sir.”

            “Good. Meet me at Bobby’s in two weeks; and you better look after that car.”

            “I will.”

            “I’ll keep in touch.” He squeezes his son’s shoulder, flashes him a tight smile and trudges out the door.

            The slamming of the door resounds in the otherwise silent house. Dean stands at the window in the aching quiet for a long while, watching the red orb of the sun emerge over the horizon.

…

            Dean’s first solo hunt is disastrous. He’s too tired and too distracted and the werewolf gets one up on him. He kills the thing, of course but that doesn’t stop him from getting banged up in the process. He takes a hard hit to the ribs and his left shoulder is a mass of blinding pain. It doesn’t seem to be dislocated, thank god, because he couldn’t get it back in without Sam.

            He staggers back to the Impala, mud caked up to his knees, and slides behind the wheel. Just gotta get far enough away. He tucks his gun into the glove-box and tears off down the road, aiming for the highway. So much as driving hurts like hell and he can hardly breathe by the time he reaches the interstate. Not long in, he abandons his plan to make it out of the state and pulls off onto a stretch of potholed road to vomit onto the ground.

            Dean swishes a mouthful of travel sized Listerine and spits it out, following that with a handful of painkillers. He studies his surroundings: a county road so it would seem, long and surrounded by tall grass and low hanging trees. There are several long, long driveways extending from this road and Dean can see the vague outlines of their accompanying houses in the distance.

            Stomach more or less settled, Dean starts driving again, looking for a good place to park for the night. He only makes it a few miles before he comes across an abandoned, boarded up gas station, vines crawling over its exterior. He pulls around behind it and into a crumbling parking lot that’s overrun by weeds. With relief, he throws the car into park and sits still for a moment, letting the A/C cool the feverish heat of his skin.

            Pink Floyd’s _Wish You Were Here_ plays quietly on the radio. Dean presses his lips between his teeth and doesn’t cry.

…

            They meet at Bobby’s three days later than planned. Dean expected to be comforted by the familiar house but instead he feels haunted. They all eat dinner in the kitchen like its nothing and then sit together in the living room, talking. Dean tries not to stare at the floor and remember the first time he made love to his brother.

            John seems more lively, invigorated from the hunt. Dean feels beat down. He doesn’t show it in front of his dad. He embellishes his werewolf story just like he’s expected to and John laughs, clapping him hard on the back. Pain explodes across Dean’s back and ribs, his eyes filling with tears but he covers with a laugh of his own. Only Bobby looks at him suspiciously.

            After John has passed out face down on the couch does Bobby corner Dean in the kitchen where he’s nursing his fourth beer. He sits down across from him and Dean smirks over the lip of his bottle.

            “How’s it hangin’?” he asks.

            “Oh, a little to the left,” Bobby replies, quick as ever and Dean huffs out a little laugh.

            “So that werewolf roughed you up pretty good, huh?”

            Dean chokes on his beer and grimaces at the pain it causes to cough. Bobby looks smug but in a concerned way that only he can truly master. A moment of silence passes in which Bobby clearly expects him to spill it already and Dean is just far too tired to hold it back.

            “Sam left, Bobby.” The words are covered in barbed wire and they’re yanked up from the pit of his stomach. “He left us for Stanford. He left…he left. Me.”

            “I know, boy. Your dad’s been belly-aching to me about it damn near every night. He’s one hell of a drunk dialer.”

            Dean stares at his surrogate uncle with red-rimmed eyes.  “Without him, Bobby. I just…I don’t know who I am. I don’t know how to function when he’s not around.” His cheeks burn but it’s the truth and he’s not taking it back. “I miss him so goddamned much I can’t even think straight.”

            Bobby reaches across the table and pushes a hand through Dean’s hair, cupping the back of his neck and forcing Dean to meet his eyes. “Listen to me. Sam needed to do this for him. He’s a grown up now-

            “He’s only eighteen, Bobby,” Dean protests, “What if something happens?”

            “Don’t interrupt me. Sam’s a capable hunter. You and your daddy made sure of that. Besides, ain’t nothing gonna happen to him in _California._ You just need to give him some space. He’ll come back.”

            “How do you know that?” Dean demands, eyes hard and sad.

            Bobby retracts his hand and shakes his head. “Boy, I’ve been watching you two your whole lives. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the brothers Winchester, it’s that you’re stupidly tangled up in each other. Never seen anything like it in my born days. Believe me, he’ll be back.”

            Dean spares him a small lift of his lips and polishes off his beer. Tangled Up. And Bobby doesn’t even know the half of it.

            “C’mon, lemme assess the damage.” Bobby says, gesturing to where Dean’s arm is curled protectively around his ribs.

            Dean sighs and follows Bobby into the bathroom.

…

            Sam still can’t sleep through the night without Dean’s comforting presence next to him but he’s playing the part of college student fairly well. He’s got his mini fridge stocked with sodas and TV dinners, a few illegally procured beers and a pile of Ramen noodles stacked on top. His bedspread is striped in various shades of green and blue; he got it on sale. His clothes are all hung up in his small closet with plenty of room to spare. His two pairs of shoes: boots and running shoes, sitting neatly underneath.        

            His other roommate Nathan is nice enough but he kind of keeps to himself. Sam and Brady managed to get past the awkwardness of that first night and he introduced Sam to all of his friends. Most days they eat together and Sam actually manages a laugh sometimes. His classes are all engaging and his teachers don’t entirely suck. All in all, when he’s not thinking about his crippling emotional pain, he’s actually excited for the future.

            There are those awkward moments when someone asks him about his past or his family. He’ll utter something non-committal and he can see Brady from the corner of his eye, giving the others a tense look of warning. They usually get the hint and drop it. He’s pretty sure that they all figure his entire family died tragically or something and they never bring it up again.

            So sure, he has night terrors that surely wake both his roommates but they’re kind enough to never bring it up. And he has daily battles with his thumb when it hovers over Dean’s phone number, itching to call him but he never does. Well that’s a lie. He called him from a friend’s phone one time when he was drunk. He said nothing and held his breath when Dean said “hello? Hello?” a heartbeat passed, “Sammy?” Sam had flinched and hung up.

            As long as he knows Dean’s alright, he can keep doing this. He can push forward, look toward the future and hope that his brother will one day understand. Dean deserves better than him anyway. He deserves a family of his own and he doesn’t need a kid brother around to keep dragging him through the mud and the sin. And Sam deserves a chance to be normal. In moments of quiet, he can feel in his gut that he doesn’t belong in this place but dammit, he has to try. For both their sakes.

           


End file.
